Rejection is a habit, numbing like all habits, rituals, routines—I reject rejection, let it crawl across my skin scrupulously, ostentatiously, disregarded but not unnoticed, letting it cling to me like protoplasm dripping from every joint, weighing down the corners of my eyes, my mouth. Something of which I put myself in the way repeatedly, mulishly, daily and weekly, out of obtuseness and a sort of holy dread: bring forth the one to be sacrificed, the works of one man, behold them, my despair. I do it exceptionally, head down a well, listening for the echo—dropped feather, heart, splash.